


Match Up

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, But this isn't actually Pacific Rim, Drift Compatibility, M/M, Mental Link, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When Jason took the placement exam at ten, just like every other kid his age, he was identified as having the talent necessary to be one of the government's shadow operatives. Of course, graduating from that program is an entirely different challenge than just getting into it, and Jason's been missing the final component to do it for years now; a bond partner. At this point, he's starting to wonder if he even has one.





	Match Up

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had a hell of a time focusing on anything to write recently (if you follow my Tumblr, you might know a bit more about that), and at one point I asked for prompts so I could find something that was interesting enough to make me actually write it. A friend of mine suggested something along the lines of 'mentally bonded space assassins', and yeah, that qualified as interesting. So, enjoy!  
> There's now a lovely piece of [fanart by Pentapoda!](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/164460670923)  
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Jason dreads this day, every year, almost as much as he dreaded the original placing exam that put him in this damn line of work. Most times, he thinks that maybe there was some kind of mistake. Maybe he's not supposed to be one of the government-run black ops specialists, maybe the exam had some kind of glitch and he got misfiled somewhere along the way.

He’s _good_ at it, no doubt, but he’s been missing the actual, final component to graduate every year since he was eligible. (Six, since he was sixteen, which makes him older than almost every other person here that isn’t one of the instructors.) He gets funneled along to every claiming like everyone else, but no one’s ever fit as his match, and he’s getting sick of the instructors telling him ‘maybe next year.’ Or, in one particularly memorable (and terrifying) case, ‘I’ve seen someone go a dozen years without finding someone; you’ll be fine.’

He _needs_ a match if he’s ever going to get out of this place and do real _work_. Specialists work in pairs, always. If he doesn’t find someone to suit him… Well, there is no alternative. He can’t do this job without a bond-partner, so they’d have to… shuffle him off somewhere else, maybe. This isn’t exactly the kind of job where you can swap over to another assignment with any ease, and the exam is supposed to make sure that _this_ doesn’t happen to begin with. People are put in the jobs they’re suited for.

Jason had never bothered to look up the failure rates because, well, it was never supposed to happen. People don’t just _not fit_ where they’re assigned. It doesn’t happen. (And the problem isn’t that he doesn’t fit, the problem is that no one fits _him_.)

He clenches his jaw as the doors to the claiming room slide open, and the other graduates start to head in. He’s tempted to drag his feet, but a firm hand between his shoulder blades — belonging to the only person in here that’s actually _older_ than him, and consequently one of the only friends that’s still here — guides him forward along with the rest of the fresher graduates. New ones; sixteen and small and looking around the new area with barely tempered glee. For today, control is allowed to slip.

“Come on, Jaybird,” his friend, Roy, says under his breath. “It’s fine; beat up a few newbies and call it a day.”

“I hate this,” he grumbles back, not taking any more than a glance around the curved, metal walls and the padded floor. Nothing new this year; not surprising. “It’s just disappointing bullshit, every year. No one’s ever going to match us.”

“Someone will, eventually.” Somehow, Roy manages to sound like he actually believes that, despite the fact that he’s been here a good three years longer than even Jason. “I hear that this year they shipped a bunch of the recruits from the training facility on the capital planet over; something about a few students they have that are having trouble finding a match. They’re going to test us all together.”

Jason takes a side glance over at Roy, eyes narrowed, as the other graduates line up ahead of them. “How the hell do you know that?”

The look Roy aims his way has one sharply raised eyebrow accenting it. “The instructors tell me about _anything_ that might end up in a match for me. Anyway, chances are better this year. Maybe one of them is the match you’ve been missing.”

“Oh _great_ ; match with one of the capital-kids. They’ve probably been unmatched what, a _year?_ Real problems, there.”

“Be nice,” Roy reprimands, and then falls into line as the instructors circle around to stand in front of them.

Jason zones out during the speech, admittedly. (He’s heard it six times before; it’s not like he’s going to miss anything important.) He only starts to pay attention again when the script veers off the one he’s already heard, and the head instructor begins to talk about how their ‘guests’ from the capital are important, and it’s an honor to have them, and a lot of shit that basically boils down to, _‘please don’t fuck this up.’_

No, wouldn’t want to offend anyone from the capital. They’re the _main_ school after all, but the plain fact is that for the people out on the farther reaches of the Imperium’s territory, or even on the outer rim itself, their government has no interest in shipping them all the way to the capital to be taught. This school, a good couple months of travel out by their means (cut in half with a capital-level ship), but not _quite_ on an actual slum planet, is good enough for the rest of them. The capital school only _actually_ teaches those from the planets designated as ‘major’ cities; a handful, but the population is high enough to keep it more than stocked with recruits, apparently.

Sometimes, students from this school that have trouble finding a match, and are particularly good, are shipped off to the capital city, but Jason’s never heard of it happening in reverse like this. The best they’ve ever gotten are administrators coming over to make sure they’re still running like they should. High-class accents and a general distaste for everything around them is only slightly less obvious a marker of status than the tailored suits and lines of technology smoothly grafted onto or into their skin. Only people with real money, or the government’s close interest, can afford to have such smoothly integrated enhancements.

Eventually, once their instructor apparently thinks he’s properly impressed upon them the importance of the meeting, he motions them over to stand on the opposite side of the room, facing the doors in mostly-neat lines. The ones not quite in proper stance get swats to the side of their heads, and Jason grudgingly stands straighter, clasping hands at his back, before they get to him. He gets an extra moment of warning staring anyway.

Then, _finally_ , the doors open again, and the capital-kids file in.

Well, they're not all kids; there are a few instructors with them, taller and older, and then one—

Jason has to blink, to stare a little bit, because although the twenty-something man looks too old to be a student, he's unmistakably in one of the uniforms, and he's not _old_ enough to be a teacher. He's got a look in his eyes, trained down towards the rest of the students (not a one above seventeen, if Jason's right) with an almost protective air, almost like he's taken them under his wings. Roy can be like that, sometimes, but only with generally one or two a year. Not... all of them, like how this looks.

The man is taller than the rest of them, but still a few inches short of the six-foot mark. Black hair to his ears, brilliant blue eyes, and the kind of sculpted good looks that promise some level of genetic tinkering before birth, or unbelievably lucky parents. It's that perfectly socially-acclaimed mix of handsome with more than just an edge of pretty, contained in the sweep of eyelashes, curve of lips, and lines just a _tiny_ bit too soft to make him look entirely masculine. Jason only realizes he's been staring longer than is acceptable when the man's gaze snaps up to meet his, picking him out of the line without a fraction of hesitation.

Jason can feel his cheeks heat a little bit, and he yanks his gaze away but not before he sees the tiny quirk of a smile.

Luckily, a moment later the capital's recruits have lined up on the other side of the room, and the instructors are greeting each other in soft, barely-audible words. Jason takes a look at the rest of the other line as he avoids the older recruit's gaze, trying to decide if he would mind having a partner five or six years younger than him. It's… uncommon, but it does happen a decent amount. The gap is only getting bigger as time goes on; better to get one now instead of having an even bigger difference later on, right?

The instructors finish whatever they're talking about, and one of the ones from the capital takes point. Of course.

Jason moves to sit down the moment that the words start leaving the instructor's mouth, as does Roy. It takes the rest of the recruits a moment to clue into it and sink down, most falling into the easy cross-legged position favored when you're going to be sitting for awhile. A few stay on their knees, and Jason resists rolling his eyes. They'll learn when they start to get sore, or get glared at for changing position in the middle of a test.

Roy shifts slightly over, and breathes, "Well look at that."

"Shut up," Jason retaliates, also under his breath, but somehow _he's_ the one that gets the sharp look from the instructor.

Things move along, and Jason settles in to wait as the first recruit is called up. Some capital kid with an A-starting last name. Things go alphabetically, always have, which Jason _despises_ because it means that by the time anything gets to him, the possibilities are already picked clean. There have been two years where by the time it was his turn, there was no one left to even try. There's a dark part of his mind that wants to say that his chances are matched before they ever get to him, but he knows that's not how it works. After all, Roy is a 'Harper' but he's still here, even though he usually goes close to first.

Jason watches, mostly idly, as the kid up there — thin, bound-back longer brown hair and green eyes; good muscle but still clearly young — goes through his first couple tries quick. It's just other young ones, but the fights barely last ten seconds before hits are landed, proving that they're not in tune enough to work together. Five minutes is the deadline. One fight, without a solid hit landed, or any noticeably awkward moments, and a match can be called.

It's… instinctive, apparently, and supposedly the room they're in is supposed to help amplify that instinct and mental connection enough to make such a definitive test possible. Something about the material that the walls are made of; Jason would be skeptical, except that he's seen enough proof to believe it. People that match in here, but never did in any training done outside this room.

Jason pays more attention when they get down to the end of the alphabet; the recruit is starting to look just a little bit wild, a tiny bit desperate. He wonders, maybe a little too bitterly to be detached about it, if there's a larger stigma to being unmatched in their school. It's a little more accepted here, at least for a couple years, but maybe it's different over there. He wouldn't be surprised, and the similarities aren't enough to make him pity the kid. A year or two is _nothing_ , not against the time that he's been here.

His name is called, a crisp, "Todd!" as the instructor looks at the list he's holding, and Jason climbs to his feet and heads out into the center of the mats to stand opposite the smaller boy.

He must be at least a bit tired, after his run of matches against literally everyone else, but Jason doesn't think that plays into how short their match is. The instructor calls a start, and the kid immediately strikes at his chest; good form, decent aim, but Jason's had five years of extra training on top of this kid, and he's tired of even playing along with these games.

He swats the punch aside, turns in an easy slide of movement as he lifts his back leg, and then slams it into the kid's gut. Not nearly as hard as he could, but enough to knock him to the floor and make it more than clear that no, this one's not his match either. The instructor gives him a nasty look as the kid gasps, an arm pressed to his stomach, but Jason just holds the gaze, unimpressed, until he's given a short nod as permission to sit back down. Roy gives him a sidelong look as well, but he ignores that too.

It's not like he really _hurt_ the kid; he'll get up and walk away just fine. If a capital-kid can't take a hit, that's not Jason's problem.

'Drake' is the next recruit called up, after the unmatched one is escorted out of the room by one of the instructors (the instructor will be back, but not the unmatched). Another recruit from the capital, with black bangs falling in his blue eyes and a thin, muscled but nearly delicate frame. His opponent is one of theirs, a bigger, muscled kid — 'El' — that Jason knows originally came from one of the farming worlds; he's got a slight twang to his voice, sometimes. Most people here have some sort of an accent to them, matching whatever world they come from (Jason doesn't like to acknowledge the roughness that twists his voice when he's angry, but he knows it's there).

Jason, initially, doesn't pay much attention to the match once it starts. But then it keeps going. When he actually looks up at it, Drake is spinning circles around El, dodging low underneath the strikes of massive arms, and legs. And yet, somehow, whenever he tries to hit back El always somehow manages to shift out of the way, or hit it aside. It doesn't look like he should be able to, given the mass difference and how quickly Drake is moving, and yet he is. Jason's seen enough of these to recognize a match when he sees it.

He looks away then, back down towards his own knees. No point in watching, really, he's seen it probably over a hundred times before.

As always happens, they hit the five minute mark and the instructor calls a halt. There's the sound of heavy breathing, and then footsteps as both of them are escorted out with soft words. Different room; private. Apparently, newly-matched pairs have… exhilaration, to put it politely. The less polite version is they tend to get physical in exploring that newly discovered feeling, and most fuck. Not all, but most. He's heard from rumor (from Roy, via the instructors) that it's nothing compared to the first fuck after the real binding.

Having someone else partially in your head, sharing the feelings and the information...

"Grayson!"

Jason glances up, and it's to the sight of the older student from the capital standing, slipping through the other recruits from his school and move to the mat's center. Grayson shares a small glance with the instructor, who then looks back down at his paper to call, "Harper!"

Roy stands and moves forward, and Jason can't quite bring himself to not watch. Most matches happen with an age gap of no more than one or two years, and Roy looks just about the same age as Grayson. They're the most likely match for each other, though — Jason is trying not to hope because it's never worked out for him in the past — he's second in that list. If Roy isn't the match, then maybe…

"Begin!"

They take a moment to just watch each other, until Roy throws a testing jab, and the movement starts. Jason feels his heart sink a little bit, despite his best attempts to not hope at all, when it's smooth. Matched skill, no hits, expressions lighting with interest as they move around each other. Figures.

Despite himself, Jason can't help counting the moments in his head. One minutes, two, three... and then, suddenly, there's a sharp moment of disruption. Grayson steps forward, out of sync, and neatly sweeps Roy's legs out from under him. There's a sharp inhalation, before a hard hand to Roy's chest that bears Roy down and _slams_ him into the ground. Hard enough to knock the air out of him, and leave him unmistakably _down_. Not a match. (Despite himself, Jason feels some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.)

Grayson, surprisingly, offers Roy a hand to get back up. Roy takes it, gets back up, before a sharp word from the instructor gets him to nod and head back to sit down. Jason leans slightly in, as the next recruit is called up in Roy's place, to murmur, "Sorry."

Roy, still breathing just a little bit heavier than he should be, in shallow breaths, just gives a small smile and a nearly imperceptible shrug. No words, just the acknowledgement that, again, this probably isn't a year he's going to find someone. But his turn should be next, once Grayson is done, so maybe he still has a chance. Maybe there's a kid here that will fit him. Even though he refuses to do the same for himself, Jason resolves to say some sort of a prayer for Roy's chances. In case anyone is listening. (He doesn't _want_ Roy to be stuck here for a dozen years, like the one horror case. Roy… deserves a chance to make it.)

Jason can't help watching as the tests continue down the line, for Grayson. He's clearly playing nice with the younger ones, gentling blows so they only count as hits without actually hurting, and he ends things quickly without trying to stretch them along. A few, he outright just swats on the side of the head in moments of unguarded weakness, to end the fight. Jason kind of wishes he didn't find that entertaining, but he does. Something in him draws tight as it approaches his turn, until he has to force himself to take a breath before they finally call his name. Last chance.

He moves to stand opposite Grayson, eyeing the slightly harder pattern of breath and the focus of the gaze trained on him. No, Grayson's not going to be taking it easy on him, he's sure. The kids, sure; ending it fast is best. But someone more evenly matched? Quick probably isn't going to happen. Grayson had a small chance to see how he fights, and Jason's had a much larger chance to do the same. Especially with the spar that Grayson had with Roy, at the start. He's pretty sure he can take him, or at least give him a good run for his money.

Not that it even really matters in this case.

The command from the instructor sets things moving, and Grayson strikes instantly with a fast jab, aimed for his nose. He shifts the moment he sees the muscle gather, and takes a step forward in the space it creates, grabbing for the back of Grayson's shirt to pull him off balance. But his fingers close on empty air because Grayson's already moving away, turning to face him, and Jason reacts without thinking about it, dropping his hands to block the leg that comes for his side. The shock reverberates up his arms, but he shoves the leg away as he leans out of the way of a jab of fingers towards his throat, and then they're both stepping back, gathering themselves again to take a breath.

It's… in sync.

Jason blinks, narrows his eyes a bit at Grayson. He gets the same in return. There's a moment where they circle each other, before Jason moves in to strike again, before they can get told to continue. Grayson lifts a hand to brush aside a punch that's barely even started, and he's twisted away from the return uppercut with the opposite hand before it comes close to his jaw. The momentum shoves them into each other, and they end up with hands twisted together, grappling for control of the close contact. Grayson's stomp at his foot never hits, and the knee he lifts to slam into his bared side is met _with that side_ before he can put any real force into it, neutralizing the blow before it can happen.

And he doesn't look away from Grayson's blue eyes, and they stare right back.

Jason's bigger, he's taller, and apparently he's physically stronger because he manages to twist Grayson's hands out of the way so he can try a headbutt. (Inefficient, low-class some of his instructors would say, but it stuns and it's a _hit_ , so it's good enough for him.) Grayson's head tilts away, and their cheeks brush but nothing else before Grayson manages to twist one wrist out from under his fingers and fling their still joined arms up to spin beneath them. It puts him at Jason's back, or it would if Jason hadn't already been turning to do the same the moment the arms come up.

They face each other again, as Grayson's hand twists to try and get his wrist twisted to an angle it can be pinned at, at the same time as the other hand jabs for his side. Arm to block the jab, wrist twisting in concert to break the connection instead of being pinned, then move in to throw an elbow towards Grayson's jaw. Nothing hits.

Jason lets go of that last clinging thread of doubt, and lets his mind relax as he gives into the call of muscle memory and instinct. If this is right, and if it's meant to be, he doesn't have to rely on how his mind usually dissects and strategizes to win. He can just let his body take the paths it wants to, and if Grayson is his match then he'll just never hit. If he's not… well, then one of them is about to take a _hard_ blow.

There's something similar in Grayson's gaze, something focused but relaxed. Jason drives him back on the defensive, nearly to the wall, and then just like that Grayson flips the table and suddenly he's the one moving backwards, slipping out of the way of fists and feet before they get anywhere close to striking him. It's _exhilarating_ , in a way nothing has been in years. This has to be right; Jason has no other explanation for how he can shift to dodge blows that have barely even started to be hinted. He can just _feel_ them, and—

"Enough!"

Jason stills on automatic, and Grayson's half-finished step forward puts them close together, barely a foot apart with gazes still joined. Jason realizes, in a sharp moment, that they're breathing at the same elevated pattern, and that startles him enough to break it. Grayson blinks, also looking a little startled, and then one of the instructors is murmuring, "Come this way," and the moment passes.

He follows the instructor blindly, more preoccupied with watching the man beside him, and being watched in turn. He's not positive where they go, or how long it takes, but then there's a door and they're being motioned through it. Grayson breaks the eye contact to go through, and Jason can't do anything but follow at his heels. The door closes, Grayson turns back to him, and there's silence for a long moment as they stare. And then Jason realizes, suddenly, that Grayson is his _match_.

A small laugh bursts out of his throat, and he lifts his hands to rake through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. "I didn't— I didn't think—”

"I _had_ one," Grayson finishes, sounding just as breathlessly shocked as he is. He looks up, and Grayson is already there, reaching forward to slide hands along Jason's cheeks, back into his hair to take the place of his own hands. "Eight years and you were just in a different school. Todd—”

"Jason," he corrects, and Grayson's mouth curls up just a little bit.

"Dick."

"Is that an insult or your name?" is the first thing out of his mouth, and he can't even begin to worry before Grayson's smiling wider, giving a short laugh.

"My _name_." The hands in Jason's hair pull him forward, slightly down, and his hands end up on Dick's waist, feeling the trim angle of it beneath the uniform he's wearing. Dick takes a breath, gaze lowering along the lines of his face, lingering at his mouth before there's a breathed, "Oh, _tell_ me you're at least bi."

Jason swallows, nods. "Yeah," is all he gets out before Dick is pulling him in, mouths coming together in a way that should crash, but instead Jason finds himself shifting, turning the angles so they slide instead, _just_ right.

Dick shifts forward, and Jason moves back in turn, until his back presses to whatever wall is behind him and Dick is layered against his front with chests pressed together and a _thigh_ sliding between his own. He wraps his arms more firmly around Dick's waist, rocking into the firm press of that thigh and feeling the matching roll of hips against the one he now has between Dick's legs. One of the hands in his hair slides away, down to his chest to find the zipper holding his uniform jacket in place and tug it down. He gives a small groan into the kiss, and the parting of his lips is apparently all the invitation that Dick needs to deepen it, tongue sliding between his teeth to take him more thoroughly.

His jacket comes apart, and Dick's hands hook at the bottom of the thinner, white tank beneath and push it up his stomach, heels of his hands sliding warm and firm against Jason's actual skin on the way up. That pulls another, muffled groan from him, and his own hands move to return the favor, slipping beneath the hem of the jacket and shirt at Dick's back to touch the skin of his waist. Hot, smooth, and Dick arches into him at the touch, grinding up against his thigh with a moan.

It's overwhelming. He needs—

Dick shifts back, breaking the kiss, giving him room, and Jason's gathering words that that's exactly what he needs never get fully formed. He takes a steadying breath, opening his eyes to find Dick just looking up at him, looking almost fascinated. He exhales, slower, and Dick gives a small smile.

"You needed a second, right?"

Jason manages a breathless, "Yeah. Yeah, I did. I was about to—”

"I know." Dick shakes his head, giving a small laugh as his hands lower, coming to rest against Jason's waist, thumbs rubbing idle circles into his skin. It makes his breath catch a little bit. "I've matched other people before, you know. I knew what they were going to do, I could _feel_ it. I'd always beat them though; they'd never feel _me_." Dick's smile lights his whole face, as their gazes meet again. "But _you_ can, right? You can feel what I'm about to do. I saw it."

"Yes," Jason agrees, lifting his hands without thought to cup Dick's head, thumbs against his jaw and fingers curling around the back of his neck. "I can feel it. I can… react to it, before it even happens. Is that—? This is what they always talked about, isn't it? God, it _feels_ —”

"Just right," Dick finishes, and his smile is a brilliant, warm thing.

Jason gets caught on it, and all he can manage to say is a murmured, "God, you're gorgeous."

Dick shakes his head, smiling. "By capital standards, but you? No changes, no surgeries, no grooming. You're _natural._ " Jason flushes, echoing the denying shake of Dick's head (like _he's_ better looking than someone _built_ to be that way), and Dick gives a soft laugh and says, "Want to know a secret?"

Jason meets the gentle, amused look in Dick's eyes. "I guess," he agrees, after a moment, not quite willing to admit that he's actually curious.

Dick leans in, rising up on his toes until his lips brush Jason's ear, and he can whisper, "Capital standards are overrated, and I want to get my hands on every handsome, natural inch of you so _come here_."

Jason barely has time to process that, or even get past the sensation of breath and lips against his ear, before Dick is pulling him forward. He moves along with it, easily following the first tug of the hand at his waist that then immediately grabs hold of his shirt to pull him across the room. He's glad, in a distant part of his mind, that Dick actually noticed that there was a bed in the room, because he definitely didn't. He falls into place when Dick spins him around, pushing at him until he falls backwards onto the bed and Dick follows that movement with a grace that Jason thinks is probably only possible because of how they're faintly connected.

By the time he considers actually doing anything else, Dick is straddling his waist, hands already pushing his jacket off his shoulders, and by that point he can't do anything but just go along with it. Not that he wants to. Not with Dick's hands baring his chest, pulling the jacket off and tossing it aside. His tank doesn't last much longer, and then Dick sits back, looking down at him with a tiny smile. Jason shivers under the attention, even before Dick touches his chest, fingers sliding up his sides, ghosting gently enough that he feels goosebumps rise in their wake and he arches into the touch, his head tilting back into the sheets.

"You've got some real muscle to you," Dick says, tracing the indentations of his abs before rising to circle the definition of his pecs. That pulls a small, strangled groan from him, and Dick echoes it with a significantly less constrained one. "I am never, ever, letting the capital change any of this. They've got me; they can't have you."

Jason lifts his hands to settle them on Dick's thighs, looking down till he finds Dick's gaze, which is still aimed towards his chest (and with more than a bit of hunger in it). "Genetic tinkering?" he asks, maybe partially to take some of the attention off himself.

Dick's gaze rises to meet his. "Oh, no; my parents weren't rich enough for that. I was only in the capital school because we traveled all over the place, and that happened to be where I was when I took the placement exam. When I wasn't matched immediately, they refined every part of me to what they thought was best." Dick takes Jason's right hand in both of his, bringing it up to touch the side of his face, guiding it along the lines as he says, "They softened my jaw, my eyebrows, and my forehead, mainly. I used to be a little more handsome, and a little less pretty. Though…” Dick gives a more wicked smile, kissing the tips of his fingers. "Not quite as handsome as you."

"You're just fucking with me," Jason defends, swallowing, and Dick lets go of his hand and leans down over him, hands bracing on either side of his head.

"No, but that's definitely what I'm planning on doing."

Dick catches him in a kiss before he can do more than flush, tongue slipping just far enough into his mouth to touch his own before retreating so that Dick can shift sideways, kissing at his jaw, down the line of his throat. Jason tilts into it, dropping his head back again to give Dick more room. A decision that's immediately rewarded as Dick hums approval into his skin, lips sealing over a patch on the side of his neck and sucking it in between his teeth. It's higher than Jason's uniform will cover, and that gives him pause for a brief moment before he remembers that he's all but officially graduated, and this is expected. No one important is going to care about a couple marks.

Dick lets him go after a couple more moments, grazing teeth down his neck as Jason squeezes his thighs, sliding his hands forward to curl more around the back of the hefty muscle there. He has to resist the urge to lift them further and grab Dick's ass instead, and that self control wanes further with every lingering, sucking kiss that Dick presses against his throat. He satisfies that urge by squeezing at the upper thigh beneath his fingers instead, every time he feels the need to. By the approving sounding muffled noises being released against his neck, Jason thinks it's safe to assume that Dick enjoys that touch.

Jason moans at somewhere around the fifth hickey, and by the time he's gathered himself enough to tilt his head Dick is already meeting him for the kiss that he wants. Shallower, without the tongue, but Jason relaxes into it with the same ease that's been surprising him this whole time. He can't help himself. It's like Dick already knows what he'll like and what he wants, and that somewhere inside of him, Jason knows just the same things about Dick. That's _exactly_ it.

Dick is the one to shift away, to exhale across his jaw and then give a small, hungry-sounding laugh. "I'm debating what I want to do with you," is the confession, and Jason opens his eyes to find Dick's gaze. It's right there; of course it is.

"Yeah?" he asks, and how rough his voice is almost surprises him. "What are the options?"

Dick's voice isn't nearly as rough as his, but it's still low when he asks, "Depends, got any good ideas?”

Jason gives up resisting, and lifts both his hands to grab that round, muscled ass above him. Dick gives a crooked grin, and Jason mirrors it as he says, "Yeah, maybe one or two."

Dick laughs, pressing into his touch and catching his mouth again for just a moment. “Well, we’ve got a long time ahead of us; I’m sure we’ll get to everything eventually.”

And it strikes Jason, with a weird, swooping feeling in his gut, that Dick’s completely right. They _do_ have, basically, the rest of their lives to try any and every way things could be between them. This is… permanent. Dick is his new partner, and it’s really, almost completely permanent. That manages to take his breath, something in him going tight with that newly realized knowledge. He _knew_ , of course he did, but knowing is so much different than coming face to face with the reality that this is going to be his new life. Period.

Dick gives a soft smile, drawing his attention back with the stroke of gentle knuckles down the curve of his jaw. “How about we take this slow?” is the low murmur, and Jason has no doubt that Dick knows at least a good bit of what he’s feeling. Not intimately, the technological linking of their minds will come soon enough, but they’re compatible for a reason.

“Yeah,” he manages to answer, slipping his hands off the ass beneath them to curve around Dick’s waist instead. “I’d—”

“Appreciate that,” Dick finishes for him, again. “I think I would too. So let’s go slow this time. Feel it out. That sound good to you?”

Jason nods, then can’t help but snort. “Of course it does.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's now a lovely piece of [fanart by Pentapoda!](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/164460670923)  
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
